Dearest Char,
I read your letter with a quickly beating heart, overcome with elation. I love you very much. But, before I raise your hopes any higher—I cannot marry you. I'm forbidden to speak of why, but I want you to know I'd like nothing more than to be your wife. I have my reasons, and believe me, to give up something like this they must be powerful. And powerful they are. I can't express how sorry I am to break your heart, but I've broken mine too. It's in little pieces on my floor, slowing its pump, red with the love I have for you. You're still very young; it's best just to forget me, and find a stunning maiden for your own, someone fit to grow old with. We can't keep up the pretense of friends any longer: it would be too painful. So don't write, and don't speak of me anymore lest you want to revive the bitterness and sorrow my image connotes in conjunction with these words. And, please, for your own good as well as mine, don't visit me, as I know you're initial instinct is to do. I was a fool to befriend you, to fall in love with someone so precious and important...and to let you fall in love with me.
This letter does you a severe injustice. In the long run, Char, it's better this way. Hate me for it—hate me until the end of the world.
I'm sorry.
Ella